Blood Brothers
by Ayame Daemon
Summary: Soap didn't die in Prague. Although he's out of commission to recover, there is distrust between him and Yuri. To top it off, Price is doggedly hunting Makarov to finish what they started. Ignoring orders and risking their lives, who is going to win?
1. Prologue

"_Revenge is like a ghost. It takes over every man it touches. Its thirst cannot be quenched, until the last man standing has fallen. The world's men of action will look and wonder… how it came to this." – Vladimir R. Makarov _

Really, they should have seen it coming.

Faced with a similar situation that happened years ago, of course there would be paranoia and the expected looking-over-one's-shoulder for an assassination attempt. How could they have vastly ignored the situation's progression toward a familiar set-up? It was the reason they were stuck behind enemy lines, awaiting a decision that could potentially spell the end of all their lives.

_The elevator doors slide open with an almost sickening squeal. From his vantage point, John "Soap" MacTavish glared into his RSASS's scope, attempting to get a better look at who was strapped to the chair inside the elevator. He wasn't certain, but he had a guess, and it wasn't someone he had been expecting._

"_What the hell…? Price, who is that?"_

"_Kamarov," Price responded, voice low and cold. This indeed was a blow. Kamarov's body was strapped to a chair, straps of C4 planted on his body. Price's and Kamarov's eyes met, and the latter gave a sad, pitiful look, regret flooding his features._

"_I'm sorry, Price."_

_Before Price could even attempt a response, someone else's voice drifted across the radio link, his voice cold and matter-of-fact. It was the voice Price desperately wanted to silence, to destroy without mercy or regret._

"_Captain Price - _Ад ждет тебя."

_It took all of a second for recognition to coil itself around Soap__before he shouted. "Price! Get out of there!" He saw through his scope the man break into a run, heading for the stairs to the right. The bombs went off, and he and Yuri leaned away from the window as a flock of pigeons took frantic flight. Soap hoped Price had gotten away in time – they didn't need another ally on Makarov's hands. As he prepared to turn to Yuri to create a quick regroup strategy, Makarov's cold voice came over the link again, each word a calculated attack._

"_Yuri, my friend, you never should have come here."_

_Soap felt like a blade had twisted itself into his stomach. His eyes instantly narrowed, a scowl racing across his features as he glared at Yuri. "What the hell's he talking about?" _

_Beep._

_Soap swiveled his head around, noticing a red-tinged blinking light accompanied by a beeping sound. That could mean only one thing…_

_Moving as quickly as he could, he lunged for Yuri. "Get out! Now!" With his momentum, he pushed the other soldier through the window, attempting to jump out right after him. However, his reaction was a tad too slow; he felt the bomb exploding at his back. For a moment, he was enveloped in flames and smoke, unseeing, before the construction platforms rose up to greet him. _

Price narrowed his gaze, focused on the task at hand. Yuri stood a rather safe distance from him, his M4A1 gun in his hands. The ex-Spetsnaz soldier didn't dare to look back but instead kept his focus toward the door they had previously slipped through to avoid Makarov's men. Standing guard was a necessary duty, although the tension of the air felt close enough to the heat of battle.

Price tied off the bandage as well as he could, remembering briefly a time when he had to do it several months before, for the same wound. "That ought'a keep you from bleedin' out for the moment," he gruffly spoke, patting a hand on Soap's shoulder. "Won't hold forever, though. We've got to get out of here."

"Don't have to tell me twice, old man," Soap weakly replied, his back against the alley's dumpster. He felt like a stuck pig bleeding, and with Makarov's men swarming the city, he felt like he needed a nice, cool draft of alcohol to get his blood moving quick enough for an adrenaline boost. He wasn't out of the fight, no matter what Price was thinking. All he required was a firearm and he'd clear a path through the enemy; as it was, he was waiting for one of two things: a rescue or an early grave.

Not the best outlook, but thinking about what had occurred minutes prior made his blood boil.

Soap lifted his eyes over toward the Russian, his mouth set into a firm line. Lowering his voice for Price to hear, he whispered, "I don't trust him."

"Who does at this point?" murmured Price in agreement. "But right now, we've got a little more to worry about than his loyalties. If we don't get out of this area before Makarov's men close in, there won't be time for interrogation."

"Then move me and let's go." Soap moved his gaze to Price, letting his narrowed eyes silently tell the man that he wasn't an invalid.

"You sure you can walk in your condition?" Price pressed, his gaze moving down to his makeshift bandages where red was already seeping through grotesquely. Soap wouldn't last more than a half hour at best in a prone position; half that if he moved around excessively. And, unfortunately, time was not their ally. Makarov's men would be there soon, breathing down their necks to wipe their having ever existed.

Soap's face twisted into an angry scowl at Price, but the pain in his eyes couldn't be hidden. He knew he wasn't going to make it for much longer, but at the same time, he didn't want to be the reason why they were captured. "Price." His tone was flat and filled with a challenge to tell him otherwise.

Price seemed to regard Soap for a moment before letting out a half-sigh, wrapping an arm around Soap to help him into a standing position. "If we head toward the northwest of town, we may run into some of the Resistance. It's not a solid lead – hell, I'm pulling at strings here – but if it means getting out of here alive, we're going to have to take the chance."

As Soap rose with Price, he jerked his head slightly to the other man who occupied the alley. "What about _him_?"

Price merely started moving toward a building opposite the one they came in through. "He still has his uses, for now. We'll question him later, once we're somewhere safe." The Captain turned his gaze toward Yuri, his eyes hiding none of the fury that he felt. Regardless of how any of them felt toward each other, all three needed the other two to get out alive. What came after would be a completely separate matter. "Yuri," he barked, "Take point through the store ahead. We've got to get Soap out of here."

Without hesitation or a backward glance, Yuri moved forward.


	2. Escaping Prague

Yuri trained his sights from corner to corner, sweeping across the rest of the store to ensure that all of Makarov's men were eliminated. Although he was focused on the task at hand, he found it easier to think about the various ways of shooting the enemy than it was worrying what Price and Soap thought about him now.

_"Yuri, my friend, you never should have come here."_

Makarov couldn't have drilled the words any sharper than the tip of a blade. His former friend – was that even the right word? – had pointed a finger directly at him, telling Yuri's closest allies that he knew the enemy and that he had been friends with him in the past. At the moment, he was certain that quieted discussions were being held behind him, but he couldn't dwell on that fact. They were in danger at the moment, and there was time later – if they got out of here alive – no, when; he wouldn't think of any other outcome – to talk over his stance with the team.

He moved around to check the last corner and let his shoulders visibly relax. "Clear," he called to the back storage room where Price was helping to keep Soap on his feet.

"Continue to take point ahead of us and keep moving northwest," Price responded immediately in a clipped fashion.

Yuri gave the briefest of shrugs, ignoring the obvious distaste Price felt in giving him a simple order, and instead moved forward, crouching near one of the open windows at the front of the store to check the outside area. He didn't detect any movement, but that was never a guaranteed safety call. He changed the M4A1 for his sniper rifle, looking down the sights for any movement at the stairs across the way. They would have to travel through open air to continue northwest, so he would make doubly sure that the pathway was free of danger.

After another minute or so of silence, he turned to give the go ahead to the other two men, switching his weapons again to take the lead, keeping his focus on various angles to ensure they weren't ambushed. Behind him, he could hear Soap gasping for breath and wheezing as he moved forward, with support from Price. Surely the man didn't have long to live, so time was of the essence. He knocked down the door to the nearest building and scanned the room earnestly for potential threats.

He heard a surprised exclamation in Russian. It was all he needed. Crouching down, he unloaded his mag into the enemy, hitting the vital points to down them as quickly as possible. In the span of a few seconds, three of Makarov's men laid on the ground, giving a few shuddering convulsions as their lives were extinguished.

Such a thoughtless task, to slay a person with a single bullet. Conversely, the same could happen to anyone. It was war, in its most basic form: you kill the enemy or the enemy kills you. More than ever, that phrase was vitally important to the trio struggling to survive their botched assassination attempt.

It took another few minutes of moving ahead before Price called for Yuri to stop, helping Soap down to the ground to lean against the small, tan brick-laid wall, shaded by a few insignificant trees that looked more sculpted than naturally grown. Yuri crouched at the far end, his eyes alert and finger on the trigger, searching for what he knew would be the enemy, crawling toward them in the dozens, with gunfire exploding all around them. Where would they go from here? Behind them were more buildings with locked doorways and a gated building to their left.

"Where do we go to now?" he asked softly, shifting his gaze to look over at the other two men. Soap was still wheezing, one arm held against his stomach tightly, his eyes locked on something off in the distance above the buildings. He was fading fast. Even from the distance of a few yards, he could tell that the wall around and the ground beneath Soap was staining with blood at an alarming rate. Glancing at the elder man, Yuri could see his jaw clenched to its extreme, a sign of determination mixed with hopelessness not yet wanting to be recognized.

"Price…"

"Hang in there, Soap. We're almost there. We're gonna get you out of here." Price shifted his stance, bringing a hand up to engage his radio. "Nikolai, come in, are you there?" After a quiet interlude that seemed to last for far too long, another voice answered from the other end.

"Da, Price. What is the situation?"

"Bloody awful. We failed to kill Makarov. Soap's wounded, so we need immediate exfil. How soon can you get here?"

"In the middle of a warzone? Are you trying to make me crash my plane?"

Price's gaze narrowed. "I'm not going to repeat myself again, Nikolai. Immediate exfil. See if you can't contact the Resistance for help. I'm sending you our coordinates."

"I have received them. I will try to contact the Resistance. It will take me five minutes, I think, to reach your position."

"Just get here, sharpish. Soap doesn't have long to wait." Price heaved a sigh, squatting down next to Soap, placing his M1911 pistol in his hand. "Keep your eyes on that gate. I'm sure we're about to have some company dropping in."

"Aye," Soap managed to breath out, but both Price and Yuri knew he wasn't going to be much help should it come to defending themselves.

Yuri returned his gaze to the open-aired court in front of them, watching for the tiniest of movements on the far side, where they had previously come from. The air was electrified, the moment before all hell broke loose. He had a strong feeling in his gut that Price was right; Makarov would not allow them to escape the city.

"Keep your eyes open," Price reminded them, crouching at the opposite end near Soap, his stare intense.

Yuri shifted a little, staring down the sights of his M4A1 Grenadier. He held his breath to steady his aim, and not long after, he saw movement coming from the far end of the court. "Price, they're coming."

"I see the bastards." Price, without any forewarning, opened fire. Soon, the air was filled with whizzing bullets and the shouts of Russian.

Yuri knew they were outmatched, even before the UAZ arrived with more Russian soldiers. He wasn't sure how they were going to make it, but knew he couldn't let his finger rest on the trigger for a second. He inserted a second magazine into his gun, continuing to fire. In a momentary lull of gunshot blasts, he heard Price curse loudly. Chancing a quick glance to the side, he saw Price favoring his right arm. A splotch of red was seeping through the fabric of his jacket above the elbow.

A bullet whizzed inches past Yuri's head, and he turned his attention back toward the battlefield, firing on the nearest soldiers. Surely five minutes had come and gone, and Nikolai's plane was nowhere in sight. Soap was wheezing louder now, almost close to what sounded like a death rattle. Price could hear it too, Yuri was sure of that. Soon, they'd be down one man.

A sudden creak of an iron gate swinging open made Yuri spin his attention around, gun pointed at the intruders coming from their left side. Half a dozen men, all carrying guns, entered the scene, moving forward to help fire at Makarov's men. Yuri gave a small smirk, silently thanking Nikolai for his quick thinking and connections. The man always had a connection, no matter where they might found themselves. It was a quality Yuri had to admire in his friend.

"It's the Resistance!" Price unnecessarily added, but Yuri was certain it was for more of Soap's sake than anyone else's. Two of the Resistance members knelt down to lift Soap up and started to carry his bleeding body to the building. "Inside!"

Yuri followed Price and the others, giving some cover fire until they had all slipped inside the building. Price ordered the two men to set Soap down on the table, and Price got to work in ordering someone to hand him something to tie off Soap's wound. It wasn't medically sound in any case, thought Yuri, but it would give Soap a fighting chance until they could take him to a real hospital for surgery.

"Price…" breathed Soap, attempting to sit up once the bandages were tied off as tightly as possible to try to stop the blood flow that was already soaking through the new bandages.

"Hold on, Soap." Price turned, speaking into his radio again. "Nikolai, where the hell are you?"

"I am at the LZ, waiting for you. We must hurry, if you want a chance out of here!"

Price suppressed the urge to berate Nikolai again, by the way he sucked in breath with clenched teeth. "All right. We'll be there in one minute. We're going through the cellar to get to you."

"Okay, Captain Price. I wait one minute," Nikolai responded before terminating the radio connection.

Yuri saw Price turn toward him, restraining the anger glaringly obvious in his eyes. Once they got out of here, he could expect a good interrogation from the man. But instead of Price drilling another command at Yuri, the man instead said in a calm voice, "Yuri, help me get Soap downstairs." The British man had his right arm held close to his body, a sure sign that his arm indeed was wounded and practically useless at the moment.

Yuri merely nodded, knowing no verbal response was needed, and moved to the left side of Soap, lifting him up at the same as Price. The three of them made their slow, careful way to the far door that led into the cellar, moving down the stairs as though they were carrying explosives – one false step and everything would go up in flames. Soap's gaze was unfocused, his skin starting to take on a sickly hue. He didn't have long to live, and yet remarkably the man was holding on far longer than was predicted.

But knowing Soap from the past few months they had worked side by side, Yuri knew Soap would hold on until the very end. Even now wasn't an exception. Despite what was in store for him in the near future, he wanted to make sure that first, they rescued Soap from near death.


	3. The Next Move

**(Thanks for the reviews, watches, and story favorites, everyone. Sorry for the delay in this next chapter, and I'm still building up the story, so nothing terribly exciting is happening yet. Also, I am visiting a friend in a different state next week, so there will be another delay in the release of the next chapter. As such, please enjoy!)**

Chapter 2: The Next Move

Yuri leaned against the wall, arms crossed against his chest, eyes downcast at the dirty, smudged floor. From the doorway to his right, he could hear the interval of pained groans mixed with heavy breaths that were painful to draw in. He sighed quietly, wondering how to explain himself properly to Price, when the time came for him to be interrogated. At the moment, the man was busy ensuring the safe house was protected as well as checking on Soap's surgery; Nikolai had found a Russian Loyalist with a medical background, but he was no certified hospital doctor. As it was, in their current predicament, they didn't have many options.

Going to a hospital meant they had to enroll Soap, put him on file. Records could be hacked and locations could be traced, and Makarov had as many connections, if not more, than Nikolai did. Going to a hospital could spell the end for all of them. At this stage of the game, one wrong move would kill them. They had to watch every move they made while attempting to locate and track Makarov's movements without discovery. In short, they had been dealt a very difficult hand.

Footsteps approached to his left and stopped a few feet from him. There was a clink of a cigarette lighter, and the waft of a newly-lit cigarette hit Yuri's nose. He merely closed his eyes, resisting the urge to give a half-hearted, knowing smirk. "I thought you quit."

"Old habits die hard, my friend," his companion responded, taking a moment to blow out some smoke.

Yuri turned his head to face his friend, years of battles etched on both of their faces. He decided the best course of action was to be blunt, especially with one he regarded highly. "Did you know?"

"Know what?" came the immediate reply. "That your past is not full of trust, or that your intention not to tell them was not well-thought out?"

"I suppose to say both would be appropriate." Yuri held out a hand and was obligingly given a cigarette. He put it to his mouth and lit it, taking a moment to relish the taste. "I'm not sure I can stay here for much longer, Nikolai."

His partner chuckled, shaking his head. "Nobody said you had to stay or go, my friend, but I would suggest you not leave now. Even if they are angry at you, it is only because you withheld valuable information."

"Or almost cost one of them his life."

"In war, there are never any guarantees," Nikolai responded. He took a long draft of his cigarette, pausing to think for a moment, before clapping a hand on Yuri's shoulder. The other soldier smiled softly, a calming presence to Yuri. Nikolai knew how to diffuse anxiety like blowing out a candle when necessary. "Some advice for a good friend: Let Price know your reason for being here. Right now, he will expect to have no secrets."

Yuri merely nodded his head, pondering, his eyes returning to stare at the ground. The groans from the room were subsiding, and he felt a slight pang run rigid through him. Should Soap not survive the surgery, Price would more than likely – no, definitely – put a bullet through his head quicker than he could explain his reasons for hiding his past and his loathing for Makarov to a degree that Nikolai thought surpassed Price's.

"I always can rely on you, Nikolai."

"Da, my friend, of course." A pause. "Well, I think we better go see our other friend, see how he is doing." Nikolai inhaled one last puff of his cigarette before letting it drop to the ground. Yuri followed suit, strengthening his resolve. He wasn't sure what to expect in the room, especially not after the tortured noises that had escaped through the door. The two moved to the doorway and slipped quietly inside the room.

Near the far wall was an unpleasant sight. Soap was lying on a gurney, dried and congealed blood adorning his chest. Some of the blood had run past his body and dripped to the floor in messy globs to mix with the dirt-ridden floor. Around him were medical supplies and the doctor, who was finishing up his work without noise. Except for the faintest rise and fall of Soap's chest, Yuri would have guessed that he had passed. As it was, the man was undoubtedly unconscious, passed out from a mixture of pain and blood loss.

While Yuri hung back near the door, Nikolai bravely maneuvered his way closer to Soap, talking in a hushed voice with the Loyalist doctor, giving brief nods every now and again. After a moment, he turned to look at Soap and bent over to whisper something to the unconscious soldier.

Once he crossed back toward Yuri, he waved the ex-Spetsnaz out the door before speaking to him again. "His condition is stable, but he has a very long time for recovery. More than a few months is necessary before he can join us in searching for Makarov."

"That's good to know," Yuri replied, walking beside Nikolai down the hallway. Although the news that Soap had not died was a relief, the fact that the man would be useless to them for several months was difficult to process. Soap wouldn't be able to help them on their hunt for Makarov. One less able-bodied man, combined with an undoubtedly questioning about Yuri's loyalty as far as he knew, between Price and Soap. He stopped briefly for a moment, causing the other man to turn to look at him with a questioning gaze.

"What is the matter?"

Yuri knew he had to face the man, whether he wanted to or not. If he wanted to help find Makarov and put an end to the madman's reign, he would have to come clean. Now was definitely a better time than later. "… Price will be looking for me. I think it better I stay near the surgery room."

Nikolai gave Yuri an understanding look, letting a faint smile grace his lips again. "Okay, my friend. I must check on the men as well as figuring out where to go from here. I will see you soon." He waved before turning and disappearing down the hallway. Yuri turned and made his way back to where he had been previously, resuming his position against the wall.

Several quiet minutes passed before he heard footsteps moving down the hallway, closer to his spot. Lifting up his eyes, he saw Price pass him without a glance or any signs that he saw Yuri and enter the room. His voice could be heard as he inquired about Soap's condition, and then a long, too long silence followed.

Yuri trained his eyes to the door as Price exited, his eyes connecting with Yuri's. His face was a mask, his emotions guarded closely. It seemed to almost resemble etched stone, Yuri mused. He kept quiet, waiting for the other man to speak first. Price had a volatile temper, and he didn't want to set it off before the real interrogation began.

Price regarded him carefully, scrutinizing him from head to foot before jerking his head to the room across the way. Saying nothing, he took the few steps it took to open the door and continued into the room.

After a brief moment, sighing with resignation, Yuri followed him inside.


	4. Splintered

**(Author's Note: Even though I'm visiting a friend, I found the time to finish up this chapter. If it seems a bit rushed toward the end, I apologize. Thank you everyone for the favorites, author watches, and reviews! I initially started this story as one for myself, because I always wondered what would happen if Soap never died. Hopefully I haven't disappointed anyone in this chapter! **

**If you have suggestions for what you would like to see happen, please include them in your reviews! Although I already have the entire plot planned, I'd like to know if others really want to see something happen in the story. If it aligns with my plans, I don't mind adding it to the story. So, please enjoy!)**

Yuri saw rather than felt the fist blow across his face, the corners of his vision darkening for a brief moment. He tasted copper in his mouth and spit at the ground, wiping his hand across his face. He rubbed his sore and bruised jaw as he looked up at the man standing before him in the room, without malice or contempt. There was a reason he was being beaten, a so-called just dessert for his actions. Deciding that staying down was a better option for him at the moment, he waited in silence for the words to fly like bullets toward his face. The moment he knew had been coming was on the verge of crashing down upon him.

Captain Price regarded Yuri for a second, the gleam in his eye communicating the want to kick Yuri while he was down. However, the idea seemed to not work for the British man, because he merely crouched in front of the Russian, smoothly pulling out his pistol and aiming it at Yuri's left temple.

"I want to hear why Makarov knows you, and it'd better be the truth. Otherwise, we'll find ourselves a body to clean up."

Price's words were cool and mechanic; he was being deadly serious, and Yuri almost felt the same form of apprehension squeeze his heart as it had earlier when Makarov's voice had floated through the radio link in Prague, sharp and metallic.

A soft hiss of a sigh escaped past the ex-Spetsnaz's lips, and he looked straight into Price's eyes to show his honesty. "I was young and patriotic when I first met Vladimir Makarov. It was in Pripyat, 1996, when I first learned the true nature of the Ultranationalist movement at Imran Zakhaev's arms deal."

"_I_ was in Pripyat at that time."

Yuri masked his surprise the best he could, feeling the cool touch of the pistol still resting against his head. "I was with Makarov when we helped Zakhaev escape during that time. Our reward was power… but power corrupts." He paused, but when Price continued to stare at him, waiting for more, he continued delivering his narrative. "In the Middle East, in 2011, a nuclear bomb was released, silencing thousands of lives at the push of a button."

"I know."

"Makarov issued the affirmation to detonate the bomb. It was during this time that I started to doubt where he was heading, to a place I wasn't sure I could follow. Five years later, when I knew he was going to massacre the innocents at the Zakhaev International Airport, I tried to alert the authorities. He knew."

Yuri paused to take a breath, closing his eyes as he pictured what his eyes saw as the elevator doors opened to the sickening scene. It was a horror that wouldn't go away, because of his inability to prevent it from occurring.

"I was shot and left to die by his hands while he and his followers carried out the massacre. I tried to stop them, even as I bled to death, but instead collapsed before I could stop even one of them. The man I had regarded for years as my ally, who regarded me as the betrayer, was the real betrayer."

Yuri reopened his eyes, watching Price's reaction carefully. His explanation over, he wasn't sure what Price would do next. A gun in the hands of a restrained, rage-filled man was no better safe than a gun in the hands of a power-hungry madman.

Price didn't move for a minute before slowly rising to his feet, holstering his pistol back into its place at his hip. "Okay, Yuri. You've got a believable story." He looked down at the Russian, who was still on the ground and regarding him with masked anxiety. "Doesn't mean I trust you. The decision about you rests with Soap, not me, so you're going to have to talk with Soap once he's in a condition to interrogate you himself." With his last words still hanging in the air, the British captain turned and left the room.

The ex-Spetsnaz heaved his shoulders, shaking his head. What a mess he had gotten himself into, and now the man who had almost died by his actions was going to decide his fate. He rose carefully and decided to find the nearest sink to wash his bloodied face before it congealed into a mess. One way or another, whether he was still accepted as a part of the team or not, he'd find a way to make Makarov pay for his crimes. He swore it on that day they had chosen opposite sides, and the decision Soap MacTavish would make wouldn't affect his conviction that when he saw Makarov again, only one of them would remain alive.

Time passed unsteadily, the days running into each other. While Nikolai busied himself with the tasks of keeping the safehouse, well, safe, and the upkeep of the men, Price used all the resources Nikolai had at his disposal to track the events occurring in the outside world. As for Yuri, he merely did what he could to help Nikolai in-between bouts of cleaning his weapons and wandering the compound. Soap continued to recover from his near-death experience, and as the days passed, he slowly built up enough strength to stay awake for most of the time.

It was no surprise to Yuri, therefore, when Nikolai came seeking him.

"Captain MacTavish would like to speak with you," he calmly announced to Yuri as the man set down the sniper rifle he was cleaning. Yuri pushed himself to his feet, turning around to notice the faint smile on Nikolai's face. It was almost a sad look, if he wasn't mistaken. Wordlessly, Yuri began to walk past the other soldier before feeling a strong grip on his lower arm. "Don't forget your reason for being here, my friend. We all want the same thing."

"… Da, I know," Yuri quietly agreed, pulling his arm away gently and heading for the door that would lead to the long hallway, where at the far end would lay Soap's recovery room. He had avoided that area ever since his interrogation with Price, but, of course, he couldn't avoid it forever. Once his feet stopped outside the door, he took a steadying breath. If Price had interrogated him like a stranger, then MacTavish would interrogate him like a prisoner. He had to be ready for whatever the man questioned.

Yuri twisted the doorknob and stepped into the room. It was a plain, dirty room, same as every room in the safehouse. In the middle of the upper wall was the bed Soap was currently lying upon, with a small wooden desk to his right and a wooden chair facing the bed. His small, battered journal rested on the table. As the ex-Spetsnaz moved further into the room, the Scottish soldier turned his head just enough to look at who was entering. His neutral look took on a furious one, and his tone was hinting at a hard-to-restrain anger.

"So, you're here. Have a seat."

As soon as Yuri took the only chair available in the entire room, Captain MacTavish stared pointedly at him, his eyes blazing and his jaw clenched.

"You're going to tell me why you know Makarov and why you thought it convenient to hide the truth from us."

Yuri stayed silent for a moment, avoiding Soap's fierce gaze that seemed to swallow him in a hole where the only way out was to speak. Fixating his focal point at a location above Soap's head, Yuri began to retell his history with Makarov, avoiding any stops he might have given, but instead recounted every detail he could recall.

Once he was finished, a heavy silence coated the room, Soap's gaze resting firmly on the thin, weakly-made blanket covering his torso and lower body. Beneath the covers, his fists were balled into tight fists gripping the bed, attempting to keep his cool and not strangle the Russian.

"So," Soap began, his voice low and slow, "that's your history." It wasn't a question.

"Da," was all Yuri mustered to say, his hands clasped in his lap. It was an unsettling feeling – knowing your fate was decided by a man who almost died because you failed to mention something that occurred in the past. Why should it matter now what his relation to Makarov was? Soap's injury was not a direct cause of his reluctance to speak about his past; it was merely a poor hand they had been dealt for the situation.

The Captain lifted his head up, turning to look once more at the ex-Spetsnaz, regarding him coolly. "I'll be honest with you, because I think you need to know the truth." He paused, letting his words sink in; Yuri knew the reason wasn't a good one. "No matter what kind of history you've had with Makarov, it doesn't excuse the fact that you never told us. You might've had valuable information we could've used so that all of this could be over and done with. But now, I can't trust you, not until you prove to me whose side you're on, mate." He closed his eyes and turned his head away. "Until then, I suggest you don't stick around here."

Yuri instantly rose from his chair, MacTavish's final words causing a strong jerk in his heart. Essentially, he wasn't needed anymore because he couldn't be trusted by the man. It didn't sting to know he didn't trust Yuri, but understanding the hidden message – _he was useless to them_ – made him want to move out of that room and start his own search for Makarov. He knew the madman's moves (for the most part), and that information alone could aid him in his own search, until he was accepted by the Scotsman and Briton again, should that ever occur.

Deciding to have the last word, to let the man see that his words didn't affect him, Yuri faced Soap, giving him the faintest of smiles. "Of course, my friend. Should you need me, you know who to contact."

The Russian left the room, letting his feet take him to the one man he needed at the moment. Stopping behind the man who turned toward him at the sound of his approach, Yuri felt himself start to speak.

"Nikolai, I need your help…"


	5. Storming the Castle

Price sucked on his cigar, taking a moment to puff out the smoke, watching it drift lazily into the air. Next to him, the bulletin board he often used to plan his moves was filled, end to end, with news clippings, photographs, and hand-written notes. His eyes glanced from image to image, assessing what his next move was. Sitting around and doing nothing was a bane, a lazy man's excuse to not do his best, and the Captain would have none of it.

He flicked off the burnt ashes at the end of his cigar and stood up, moving closer to the board, eyes roaming, looking for a clue he could latch onto; something that would tell him what Makarov was planning next. To say he was frustrated wasn't quite enough; he wanted to find that bastard and string him up like the terrorist he was.

He gave an almost inaudible sigh, turning toward the door to the room, pausing when he noticed Nikolai standing there. He must not have heard him come in.

"What do you want, Nikolai?" he drawled out, locking eyes with the man who had aided him so much in the past with intel. Too bad he couldn't assist him in that way anymore.

Nikolai didn't respond. Instead, he crossed the distance and sat in front of the laptop that faced away from the bulletin board. His hands began to glide across the keyboard, pulling up images and pages quickly.

Price had to suppress a snort. What the hell was Nikolai doing? He about tore into the Russian for disturbing him before he noticed the image of an old castle come up on the screen. He bent forward, frowning. Images of a handful of castles were filling the screen before Nikolai finally let his fingers rest.

"I have information I think you could use in your search." He gestured to the screen. "I have been told that Makarov likes to use a castle near Prague for caching weapons. I'm not sure where, but it seems a good lead."

Price, keeping cool, nodded his head. "Excellent. I think I'll ring up baseplate and see if they've got any intel that'll narrow that search even further." Nikolai abdicated the chair, allowing Price to situate himself in front of the screen, typing away to make contact with his old mentor.

It was only a few minutes' lapse before Price established a connection with Baseplate. Nikolai, deciding to give Price courtesy, left the room before the conversation began.

A heavily-accented Scottish voice issued from the laptop, a voice Price almost missed. Almost.

"What do you need from me, son?"

Price typed in a few codes to send the images on his screen to the other man. "A location. Our Russian says Makarov used to cache weapons at an old castle near Prague. He's got nothing more solid than that. Place ring any bells?"

There was a brief pause before images started bombarding Price's screen. Schematics papered his screen and a drone simulation began.

"Aye. We ran drones over a suspect castle back in Zakhaev's day, but we never got wind of our targets visiting the area."

Price watched the screen carefully before responding. "What am I up against?"

The drone simulation was replaced by detailed images of different areas of the castle. "The place is a fortress. Only one way in or out," MacMillian answered, pausing for a moment to let the facts sink in to his former leftenant's mind. "… unless you've learnt to fly."

Two specific images, one of a security office, the other of a command center, took precedence on Price's screen. "Security office on the far side of the compound and a command center north of that. Both were heavily guarded. If Makarov's there, he'll be in that control room."

Price let the information wash over him, his mind frantically setting into motion a chain of events of how he would finally catch Makarov and end this war once and for all. Although it wasn't the best start to locating Makarov again, it was better than what he had previously. Thinking of the items he would need to successfully pull off storming the castle, he let his mind guide his fingers into creating a list. Checking over it once, he pushed enter and leaned back in his chair with a grin.

He had a plan now.

* * *

Soap glared at the ceiling, too tired to get up and try to do anything, the pain in his abdomen dull and constant. Besides that, the doctor had colorfully told him that he was on bedrest for quite a long while when he had tried to get out of the infernal bed earlier, close to coughing up a healthy dose of blood in the process.

"Just my luck," he told the empty room, closing his eyes in a disgruntled fit.

"You've always had terrible luck, Soap."

The Scottish Captain inclined his head enough toward the door to see who had disturbed his moment of self-criticism. He gave a half-attempted chuckle, shaking his head enough to be noticed. "Not as poor as yours, old man."

"We'll see about that." Price pulled the chair away from the desk, sitting down in it as though it were his rightful place to be. He gave his fellow Captain a long, hard stare; it seemed to Soap that he was looking for something, some sign on his face. _Probably a sign of how much pain I'm in._

After an unbearable silence that grinded on Soap's patience, Price spoke. "I've found a lead, Soap. It might bring us closer to Makarov."

"That's great, mate," Soap gruffly responded. "Where'll it be?"

"Old castle near Prague. Baseplate offered the location. Now it's just a matter of amassing the equipment I've asked for and heading there to give Makarov an unexpected visitor."

Soap didn't miss the subtle shift of personal pronoun. Cocking an eyebrow, he tried to keep his voice steady. "What do you mean by that, Price?"

The older man sighed, pinching his nose momentarily. He hated breaking the news to a man he respected highly, but for the mission he was about to embark on, there would be no room for anyone who had an injury. This late in the game, with the recent turn of events – he knew Yuri had left the compound; Nikolai's not-so-subtle clue about being tipped off about the castle was reason enough – he could only trust Soap with important missions such as the one he'd be leaving for in just a day or so.

"Soap, you're too injured to come with me on this one."

"Bullshite, Price. Just give me one good day to rest and I'll join you."

"Not risking it. I'll need you for future missions. This is strictly scouting – we need to know what Makarov's got up his sleeves and that castle is a good place to start."

Soap let out a growl, closing his eyes stubbornly in an attempt to ward off the words filling his ears. Just because he was injured didn't mean he was useless.

"Price," he warned, leveling his gaze to stare into Price's eyes. There would be no reason not to take him on the mission. He wasn't some invalid!

"No arguments. Just rest and shape up for the next mission. We'll both get him together, Soap." With that, Price stood up and turned to leave the room.

"…Price?"

The man turned his head. "Yeah?"

Soap's eyes blazed with passion. "You better as hell remember that promise."

Price had to smile. "No doubts, Soap. No doubts." He kept his grin even as he left the room. Makarov wouldn't last the month; he had no doubts.


End file.
